


Unfathomable

by pansythoughts



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Romantic Friendship, non-graphic physical violence (briefly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansythoughts/pseuds/pansythoughts
Summary: Almost every morning begins the same way: at a little liberal leaning cafe, halfway between their rented rooms. They had found this place when they had moved in to these rooms, had scoured the area together to find the best cafes and shops. Enjolras now insists that was done to find safe and sympathetic establishments to their cause; Combeferre knows that this is somewhat revisionist, and that even Enjolras appreciates a good morning coffee.





	Unfathomable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashieundomiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashieundomiel/gifts).



_I. Morning_

Almost every morning begins the same way: at a little liberal leaning cafe, halfway between their rented rooms. They had found this place when they had moved in to these rooms, had scoured the area together to find the best cafes and shops. Enjolras now insists that was done to find safe and sympathetic establishments to their cause; Combeferre knows that this is somewhat revisionist, and that even Enjolras appreciates a good morning coffee.

Combeferre waits at a table outside, enjoying the morning sunlight and a newspaper. He’s predictably early, and unbothered by waiting. He knows Enjolras will be almost precisely thirteen minutes late, to the second. It is the same everyday, like clockwork. (Many of their friends have taken to timing the phenomenon; they do not know that Combeferre himself tracked it and documented it, years ago.) 

Today, Combeferre is on his second coffee when Enjolras makes it to their table. Enjolras is red in the face, like he ran there, or, more likely, like he had gotten into an argument. He flags down a serving woman, jaw tight, and Combeferre admires how polite he manages to stay as he orders, even as he obviously is still seething. As soon as the woman is gone, he turns to Combeferre, and all but slams his palms on the table.

“Some ignorant,” Enjolras begins, struggling to maintain his volume, “wanted to debate with me the effects of the July Revolution for the working class! In my lodging house! At the crack of dawn!”

“Was it that same man that’s been antagonizing you, M. what’s-his-name, the one we’ve discerned wants your rooms?” Combeferre smoothly cuts in, punctuating his sentence with a sip of his coffee.

“It was, as expected,” Enjolras grumbles back, pausing to thank the serving woman as she delivers him his customary cup of black coffee. 

“Then, you do realize he was doing that to get a rise out of you?” Combeferre leans in, smiling placidly, “I suspect he was hoping you would make a scene, and manage to get yourself removed from your lodgings.”

“Of course that was it,” Enjolras replies, “But it is still so frustrating when people don’t see how the reforms did little to actually help the common citizen! Would you simply walk by as a bourgeois fool spouts harmful nonsense?” 

“I would if I knew he was only trying to use my passion against me,” Combeferre points out reasonably. 

Enjolras sighs in response, and picks up his coffee. “Your reason in the face of opposition is a trait I dearly love about you, my friend, but it is also so very frustrating.” 

Combeferre smirks, and says nothing, and drinks his coffee. Enjolras really looks at Combeferre then, and notices that this is already his second cup, and that his pace may imply a third be necessary.

“You were up quite late last night?” Enjolras comments idly, no hint of teasing in his voice. Three cups of coffee usually implies a bad morning, Enjolras knows from experience. The groan that meets him at that statement is more an answer than anything.

“I was engrossed in the study of a particular philosopher,” Combeferre admits sheepishly, “I’ve been working with Jehan to translate his work, and I… forgot sleep was a necessity, again.” 

Enjolras laughs. “And you chide me for being foolish,” he says, good-naturedly. 

From there, the discussion ranges the news in the paper, to how they expect the days will go with their respective studies. It’s important to them to start the day together, with their closest companion. It’s important for them to start the day with comfort, and the sense of home.

 

_II. Afternoon_

Enjolras has never been one to shy away from violence. While he never uses it for ill, he recognizes it as a tool that can be used in the appropriate situations. A weapon in the arsenal, Combeferre thinks wryly to himself, and almost chuckles, even as the situation is completely the wrong one for jokes.

The situation being two cutpurses, who eyed their untattered frock coats and the delicate embroidery on Enjolras’ cravat and marked them as easy targets for a mugging, cornering Combeferre and Enjolras in an alley. Unfortunately, they hadn’t expected Enjolras. People rarely expected Enjolras.

So Combeferre now watches, two steps back, as Enjolras gets in the faces of men who would do them harm, fearless. 

Should Enjolras need him, Combeferre would of course step in. He is no shrinking violet, and can scrap with some competence if need be, for all he doesn’t enjoy it (Bahorel would never allow any of them to not meet that bare standard). But, clearly, Enjolras has this well in hand. The muggers are on the defensive, startled that their mark won’t cower at their presence. Enjolras is delivering a scathing indictment of their actions, questioning their honor, while bringing his fists up subtly in to a defensive stance.

That measure proves useful, a moment later, when the man on Enjolras’ right swings a fist in a wide arc towards Enjolras’ jaw. Enjolras bobs under it to the outside, having seen how the blow was telegraphed, and hooks his own fist under the man’s chin, connecting with a crack. The ruffian stumbles backwards, and Enjolras sidesteps with the momentum of his own punch. 

The second man throws a straight punch at Enjolras’ nose, clearly enraged by the mockery being made of his companion; Enjolras parries the fist before it can connect, and drops low to deliver another hook to the man’s gut. The second man too stumbles back, clearly winded. 

The fight begins in earnest then, both men coming at Enjolras with no cohesion between them, and the same telegraphed blows. Combeferre watches from where he stands back, feet naturally falling in to his own defensive stance, just in case. But mostly, he watches Enjolras.

Enjolras, who looks barely winded, despite fighting two assailants. Enjolras, who controls his blows to do only enough damage to dissuade, to end the fight, not to truly harm either man. Enjolras, who only looks more beautiful with his cheeks red from exertion (and at that thought, Combeferre feels his own cheeks heat).

Eventually, the fight ends, with both muggers laid out with a couple of well-aimed hits to their jaws. Combeferre steps up to Enjolras, taking his hands in his. He looks first at Enjolras’ knuckles, and sees that a few have split, and makes a mental note to salve and bandage those later-- he knows Enjolras won’t do it himself.

“You were very brave,” Combeferre says quietly, still holding Enjolras’ hands.

“I would have given them the money if they had only asked; they gave me little choice otherwise,” Enjolras replies, mouth twisted down unhappily. 

“I know,” Combeferre says, and strokes his thumb gently over the back of Enjolras’ hand.

~~~

Combeferre is typically not one for violence. He always prefers to try to appeal to the logic or the heart of someone, and only sees violence as a last resort should everything else fail. That’s why it’s almost startling to see Combeferre in the face of a police inspector who has been harassing a gamin.

They had been passing the scene on the street, the inspector making unkind comments at the little boy, accusing him of crimes the child clearly had not committed. The gamin had stood his ground, and fired back at the inspector, telling him colorfully where he could shove his words. Then the inspector grabbed the little boy’s arm. It had looked like a tight grip.

“I’ll be right back,” Combeferre had muttered, and then strode across the street, shouting for the officer to unhand the child. The officer did, startled, and the gamin, understanding an out when one was presented, used the opportunity to scamper off. This left Combeferre, now with the police inspector’s full attention.

Enjolras watches, impressed and a little amused, as Combeferre launches into a tirade about the rights of private citizens--even gamins, the legal authority of the police, and the failures of the government that affect both the gamin and the police inspector. He is eloquent, impassioned, and very clearly furious.

Combeferre’s anger is a rare thing; while Enjolras is tempestuous, frequently moved to loud displays of passion, Combeferre is placid, logical, steady. To see him moved to this extreme is not out of character, especially given the cause, but is certainly not commonplace. Enjolras feels almost privileged to witness it.

When the police inspector has been visibly cowed, Combeferre quits the scene with a huff, and returns to Enjolras’ side. He is still visibly shaking, the adrenaline of the conflict and the fury still coursing through him.

“You were very brave,” Enjolras says, echoing Combeferre’s own sentiment.

“I couldn’t leave it like that,” Combeferre says, lacing his hands together and squeezing them in an attempt to control his emotions. “That man was clearly going to hurt that child; that was unacceptable.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, and feels warm, with love and admiration for the sheer _goodness_ of the man beside him.

 

_III. Evening_

Often, in the evenings, Enjolras and Combeferre will meet at one or the other of their lodgings, or at some cafe or other around the city, and plan the activities of Les Amis de l’ABC. Sometimes, it is just meetings that need to be planned, or charitable activities. Other times, it is the more secretive work that must be dealt with--the acquisition of supplies, the movement of comrades around the city. In all things, however, Enjolras relies on the steady guidance of Combeferre, as much as Combeferre looks to him for leadership.

Tonight, they are simply planning a meeting, at a cafe that serves bad wine and worse food. Combeferre is taken with the atmosphere of the place however, despite the subpar fare, and Enjolras doesn’t see the need to fight him.

“We can’t hold it on that day,” Combeferre is saying, in response to the first date Enjolras had thrown out, “Feuilly is expected to work that evening, if I recall, and Jehan will not yet have met with that publishing house he has been discussing the new pamphlets with.”

“Ah, I had forgotten about the publishing house,” Enjolras mutters, and makes a note in the journal spread between them. “What about perhaps this day instead?” He asks, pointing to a day in the journal a few days after. 

Combeferre thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “That’s the day Bahorel is to meet with the carpenter’s guild, and Courfeyrac was going to investigate that widow with the rumored liberal leanings.”

“I’m very glad you remember these details, my friend, as it seems I am incapable,” Enjolras says, smiling tiredly.

“You simply focus more on the bigger picture, on the broader game,” Combeferre says, not unkindly. “I don’t mind being the one to keep track of the smaller things.”

“That’s a very kind way of saying I am forgetful,” Enjolras replies.

“You’re too beautiful for self-deprecation to suit you,” Combeferre says unthinkingly; Enjolras admires the way his cheeks grow slightly pink when he realizes exactly what he has said, and where.

“You’re altogether too kind to me,” Enjolras says, chuckling. 

“Yes, well,” Combeferre says awkwardly, fixing the buttons on his shirt cuffs in what Enjolras recognizes is a nervous gesture. “Shall we get back to the business at hand?”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, composing himself. “Lets focus on what needs to be addressed on the agenda, and worry about the date afterwards.”

“The new pamphlet of course, and the carpenters guild should be a major focus, I think.” Combeferre says, making notes in Enjolras’ journal. “Jehan’s progress will hopefully not be delayed, so we can discuss distribution plans.”

“We’ll need to get a gage on the guild’s sympathies as well, and incorporate that for further use,” Enjolras replies, writing smoothly around Combeferre’s hand as he speaks.

“I suspect Courfeyrac’s widow will turn up little besides a pleasant night for Courfeyrac, so lets not plan to rely on that overmuch,” Combeferre says drily. Enjolras snorts.

“While I hope that’s not the case, your intuition in such matters are generally stronger than my own, so I defer to your judgement on the matter.”

“Do you recall if Feuilly mentioned having talked to the fan makers’ foreman recently? I can’t remember, and you’re closer to him in any case.”

“I believe he said he had plans to speak to them again early this past week, though it's a good idea to follow up on that.”

“I believe Joly and Lesgle were going to make inquiries at the universities, respectively, this week regarding various supplies; we should make a note to monitor their progress.”

“I agree, that’s important work and those are often the two I worry over the most.”

They weave around each other, jotting notes in the shared agenda between them, rattling off the the activities of their comrades with practiced ease. There’s a pattern to this exchange, an easy back and forth, that’s so familiar Enjolras could do it in his dreams. Combeferre is the man he relies on most, not only for his startling memory and insight, but for how well they work together. They complement each other, two halves to a whole; a leader and his conscience, a guide and his champion. 

Enjolras could not have asked for a better partner.

 

_IV. Night_

It’s very dark, and very quiet. Combeferre has lost track of the time, somewhere along with the number of bottles of wine their rowdy friends had passed around in the back room of the Musain, after they had concluded their business for the night. He suspects it’s sometime past midnight, but how far past he can’t be sure. The man pressed to his side prevents him from pulling out his pocket watch.

Neither himself nor Enjolras are intoxicated enough to warrant the closeness, Combeferre having stopped early in to the revelry, and Enjolras not having partaken at all. But the gait of a drunk makes a convenient excuse for their intimacy, and for having Enjolras in his rooms at all hours.

Combeferre manages to pull out his key, and lets them with little fuss. Enjolras removes himself from Combeferre’s side long enough to shrug off his overcoat, and long enough for Combeferre to light a single candle. The room is barely illuminated with the single light, everything cast in a soft, muted orange.

There is a beat, a moment where Enjolras and Combeferre simply look at one another.

“You are so lovely,” Combeferre breaks the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. 

Enjolras steps back into Combeferre’s space, and takes his face in his hand. Unconsciously, Combeferre leans in to the touch.

“You compliment me so often,” Enjolras murmurs, running a thumb over Combeferre’s cheekbone, “and yet you are the one most worthy of praise, my dearest friend.” 

“You flatter me,” Combeferre deflects, breaking eye contact. Enjolras just shakes his head.

“Accept the compliment, my love,” Enjolras replies, and leans in.

It is not the first time they’ve kissed, or even the first time they have kissed in Combeferre’s rooms, late at night after a drunken evening with their friends. The motion is as practiced as every part of their relationship, a dance they have perfected over years together. It is comfortable, and warm, full of everything that is both said and unsaid between them.

“I am so happy you are by my side,” Enjolras says, when they finally part.

“I would move the heavens and earth to keep it so,” Combeferre replies, and leans back in.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom, even though I've been deeply in to Les Mis for a number of years, and I'm so happy for the opportunity. Dashieundomiel, I hope this was what you were looking for!


End file.
